


Light of All Lights

by orphan_account, whiskeyandspite



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Teasing, Temptation, mild manipulation, substance influence, substance use, victorian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 13:19:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Best to come in before they get up their courage," the coachman suggests, with a faint smile and a glance in the direction of the wolves.  Will is surprised to hear him speak English, though it is strongly accented and a little hesitant - no one had since the train station, and he has been in two carriages hence. "You'll forgive my empty household," the coachman continues, as if it were his. "I keep few servants, and those I have mostly dismissed save the few I intend to take with me." </i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>It's with a start that Will realizes his coachman is the Count himself.</i></p><p> ------</p><p>Set in Victorian England and Romania, this goes from the prompt found <a href="http://themongooseunderthehouse.tumblr.com/post/55990798701/hannigram-victorian-era-au-requested-by">here</a> which requested a Dracula-like fic without actual vampires involved. So... we give you Victorian England/Romania based on Dracula and without the vampires.</p><p>There is a lot of sex in this. Eventually. We like to take our time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light of All Lights

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday gift for the beautiful, talented and absolutely adorable [Ashley](http://hughdancysexual.tumblr.com/) who turned 19 today! Huzzah! She found the prompt (originally by [themongooseunderthehouse](themongooseunderthehouse.tumblr.com/)) and requested we play with it. So here you are, lovely, all for you.
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> 1\. This is based quite a bit on Dracula, Max knows the book very well and kept us on track, so enjoy the atmospherics  
> 2\. We deviated from the prompt just a little in this, but that's because we're artists and we took creative liberties.  
> 3\. This is most likely going to be part of a series, but our plates are very, very full with requests and work this coming month and it's doubtful we will get to the next part of this quickly. Regardless, keep your eyes open.  
> 4\. Salamander brandy may or may not exist, and we may or may not know how long it takes to get to Romania from France on foot (17 days, 22 hours for the boat ride across the channel), and we may or may not have discovered more exciting things while writing this AU.

William fiddles with his hat. He shouldn’t, no proper English gentleman should be caught doing such a thing, but he needs something to do with his hands so he’s not running them through his hair and messing it up.

The carriage is comfortable enough, though he is glad he wrote his letters to Alana on the train. He doubts if he tried here he’d get more than ink blots and shaky scratches, implying far more horrors than he was currently experiencing. The trip itself has been exhausting but not particularly difficult. They had gotten lucky with the weather on the ocean on the cross over, and France had greeted them with light rain and nothing more. He had spent a few days catching up on his rest on the train before being able to fully appreciate the landscape passing them by.

The man he’s meeting – Count Lecter, he recalls, though it is written in his ledger – has shown interest in purchasing land in London. William’s superior saw a lucrative enough transaction to send his best man, though Will was not consulted on the matter until the assignment was given. Hence, perhaps, the nervous fidgeting now.

He’s not inexperienced, but he’s far from the best. In his opinion, anyway, though it seems to count for little with Jack Crawford. William is persuasive in a way that is not at once invasive. He has a way with people that sets them at ease, convinces them that what they need is exactly what he is offering and nothing else available. He has the perfect skillset to be a salesman of any kind, and enough guilt weighing on him with every sale to counter. He could complete a sale successfully but leave the transaction sour-faced and exhausted. He had, in his eyes, no proper follow through that a salesman ought to have.

The carriage jolts and Will closes his eyes for a moment, resting his head back. They have been on the road to Mures Superior for hours now though it seems to get no closer. He wonders if the trip will be worth it, if his persuasion can garner a high enough sale for Jack to be pleased and perhaps not force him on such long trips for a few months. He misses London. He misses his home and his dogs… the only thing he doesn’t miss, and he supposes he should, more than anything else, is his wife.

He quickly forces his mind from that topic and parts the curtains to look out into the quickly-falling dusk to survey the mountains above them.

Without, the sun is sinking into its bloody grave, though it already seems darker than it should with the mountains hiding more of the sun's last rays. Above, the black sky creeps further and closer. The coachman works his whip, and the horses pick up pace, harness bells jingling in a way that would be merry if not in counterpoint to an occasional nervous and shrill whinny and the shriek of the wind through the pass behind them. To one side, dark pine woods rise threatening and to the other there is only the edge of the road, and then the edge of the mountainside itself, an indeterminable drop as they curve back and forth.

It is the first howl of the wolves that grabs at Will's spine and sends an icy shiver up the length of it, his breath stuttering out of him as he grips his suitcase and wonders if its too late to turn back. The carriage rattles faster over the pass, as dark shapes threaten along the wooded side - the first silvery shape, Will convinces himself is a trick of his tired eyes, his nerves.

The others are impossible to ignore, streaking alongside the carriage with open, lolling mouths and hungry gleaming eyes until they grow too bold and the driver's whip sounds now to drive them off instead of urging the horses faster. 

It is, to say the least, an exciting ride. The wolves chase, relentless, the track winds perilously back and forth, and Will grows ever more anxious until finally, finally as the last rays of the sun die out and leave them in the darkness save for the small glow of the lanterns that sway alongside the carriage, the castle comes into view, windows lit to blazing, and the bridge lowered to allow them across. 

The wolves do not dare the drawbridge, but stand on the far side with gleaming eyes and heaving sides as the horses clatter across. In the courtyard, they draw up, the horses lathered and heaving. No one comes to meet them in the yard, the coachman leads the horses away, and seems content to leave Will to his own devices at the great doors of the castle. Will struggles to bring his suitcase up the stairs, and stands for a time facing the immense doorway - as if uncertain how to broach the endeavor.

At last, a seam of light appears in the darkness, and a smaller panel gives way to reveal a darkly clad figure, which Will recognizes as the coachman, without his hat. "Best to come in before they get up their courage," the coachman suggests, with a faint smile and a glance in the direction of the wolves. Will is surprised to hear him speak English, though it is strongly accented and a little hesitant - no one had since the train station, and he has been in two carriages hence. "You'll forgive my empty household," the coachman continues, as if it were his. "I keep few servants, and those I have mostly dismissed save the few I intend to take with me." 

It's with a start that Will realizes his coachman is the Count himself.

An interesting introduction, to be sure. He wonders if such surprises are things he can expect from the man, if perhaps in his seclusion he has learned to garner his entertainment through the reactions he can get. it sounds far more sinister in Will’s mind than he supposes it is in reality, and he takes the sound advice to come inside before the wolves brave the bridge.

“You’ll forgive my silence, then,” Will offers in return once the door is closed behind them and secure, “I did not expect to be escorted by the Count himself.”

He holds out his hand, belatedly perhaps, but still polite, his hat clasped in the other still.

“William Graham.”

The man before him is not imposing so much as a man who carries natural power and grace. He is someone who, were he in a lower class, would still command a room simply by being in it. and who knows, perhaps that was a way he had gained his title. Will knows for a fact that more often than not they are bought and not inherited, a fact that irks him but he bites his tongue; it’s not his place.

"Hannibal Lecter," the Count answers, taking Will's hand and with the other, pressing his hat over his heart as if to express utmost earnestness. "Your silence is of course forgiven. I thought you might want time to gather yourself after your journey."

The handshake is tight but not painful, and Will offers a smile to go with it before letting go. He’s unsure how to proceed now, with the vast space they’re in so empty and near-silent. He’s used to taking cues from the servants on how to interact with the man of the house. A man is only as good as how he treats those under him. here, he has nothing but the knowledge that the Count had not only driven the carriage home for hours, just to get Will here, but also to the point where William had switched carriages, making it a full day’s journey for the man starting obscenely early.

That, if anything, shows his character and Will forces himself to relax.

"I'm sure you must be hungry, Mr. Graham. I know it is late for supper but I made certain one would be laid for us," he says, leading the way. Beneath his heavy dark cloak, the Count is dressed in deep red, almost the color of blood, and when he takes it off it catches the strange light of the hall. There are lamps along either side, but no sign of who lit them, and similarly when they enter the dining hall. 

But the food is warm and plentiful, and after the dangers of the night the hall is warm with a blazing fire in a hearth large enough to house perhaps the entire trunk of a tree, should the Count desire it. Now what burns is strange coal, nearly smokeless. The table is laid with anything one might desire to eat, and Hannibal settles across from Will comfortably, though he seems only to toy with his food. No servants appear - it is up to them to pour their own wine and fetch their own portions.

"I hope you can forgive my English," the Count continues, when he is certain Will has settled comfortably. He had instructed the man to leave his suitcase at the door, so it could be taken up to his rooms. "I hope it will pass well enough in England." 

The food, when Will tries it, is rich and spiced, but not in a way that heated the tongue. It was flavourful and easy to enjoy, seeming to call one back to it.

He takes a moment to consider, swallowing before answering.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he assures him, because though the words are accented they don’t come with hesitation and an unfamiliar structure. There is a pleasing roundness to his vowels that smooths over the other accents he will encounter in London.

“It will pass very well, though perhaps you will find yourself with unwanted attention from young women seeking to know your accent’s origin.” He offers it in jest though its partially a serious warning. He does smile, however, when the Count seems amused. 

Will allows himself to take in the room as he enjoys supper. It’s enormous, indicative of the castle it’s housed within, and warmed well by the fire. He lets his eyes wander up to the ceiling that he can barely see with the firelight and back down the walls. Perhaps it’s rude to let his attention wander so but he can’t help it. few properties in England match this for magnitude and beauty. Which begs the question,

“Why are you seeking to relocate to England?” Will takes up his wine glass carefully and keeps his attention on the man in front of him fully now, “If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

"No, I don't mind," the Count answers, with a smile - and it creeps all the way to his eyes. He leans back in his chair, turned sidelong to the table, and settles his boots up on one of the other chairs. "Transylvania is a beautiful place but it is a small one. The people are superstitious and believe this place cursed. I have no remaining family, and so there is just me and this-"

His gesture takes in the castle, grand but stone and cold and so much of it. "I want to live for a while in the city - you can see that it would be novel for me to have neighbors. I am grateful for you coming all this way to help me, Mr. Graham."

Will watches the man change position and make himself more comfortable and averts his eyes back to his dinner. He does, however, listen to everything the man says. He supposes it would get very lonely living as he is, though he refrains from telling him that London isn’t a friendly place if he expects to have neighbours he speaks to frequently. People of his class, especially, are notoriously bitter and uptight.

“It was no problem at all,” he replies, looking up and offering a smile in return, though his is perhaps more tired and doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Gesturing gracefully, the Count turns the questions around on Will. "I hope your journey wasn't too troublesome, Mr. Graham. And I hope I can make your stay worthwhile until we reach an arrangement."

Will inclines his head, keeping his eyes on the Count for the moment. He wonders how exactly his stay can be made worthwhile beyond the man accepting the most expensive property and signing the deeds. Though he says nothing on the matter.

“I got very lucky with the weather,” he offers instead, “And the final coachman.” Here, at least, his smile is genuine.

As if aware of the eyes on him and their question, the Count's eyes slide away, but they aren't impolite - just distant for a time. As if he heard something just outside the range of hearing. It slides back quickly, and the Count has the good graces to look ever so slightly chastised. 

"I wanted to see what you were like before I introduced myself," he admits. "It was impulsive."

The Count's smile is demure, gently asking forgiveness, and he reaches for his cup to take a mouthful of wine, and a long look over the rim of it at Will, gauging his reaction. It's not entirely certain what he's looking for, but he seems to find it. At least for a moment or two before he stifles a yawn behind his hand.

"My apologies again," he says. "You certainly must be as tired as I. Let me show you up to your rooms."

He takes up a shuttered lantern, and leads the way unerringly - but the castle is clearly a place not to become lost in, halls turn away left and right, and most of them seem as any other. Up, Hannibal leads and up again. "Mr. Graham I must warn you that no matter what dreams trouble you, you must not stray from your quarters. It would be so easy to become lost, and parts of the castle are in disuse."

He turns an apologetic look back at Will, before he stops at a heavy wooden door and pushes it open, hanging the lantern inside to illuminate the richly appointed quarters. "Sounds carry strangely," he warns, and even as he does, the wolves take up howling below. Smiling at the irony, the Count moves to the latticed window, and pushes it open to peer out below. "You are quite safe, no matter what music the children of the night make."

Will’s mind conjures up far too vivid images from fairytale books he had been read as a child, though he returns the look with a weak smile when it’s offered to him. He doubts he’ll leave his room, even for the worst of it. if it really comes down to it he has books with him to tide him over through the night. He hopes, though, that he gets some sleep at least.

“I’ll certainly remember that.” He says, staying near his door and the lantern for the moment. Behind him, the corridor seems to shrink in the darkness and he looks away quickly. He doesn’t ask if the man needs a lantern of his own, for childish fear that his will be taken away. He gives Hannibal a grateful smile and sees him out, promising to wait, in the morning, to be shown down to the dining hall again. he doubts he’d be able to find it himself if he tried.

He wonders if, perhaps, living in the city as long as he has been has made him soft. made his ears a little too keen for sounds that aren’t carriage wheels or people yelling in the street. The country around him scares him with its silence, and its sounds of living beings that aren’t human. Will closes his eyes for a long moment before shaking his head and convincing himself he’s being an idiot. Wolves do not climb walls. His door is thick wood and locked. Nothing can get in to hurt him. trouble him from the outside, perhaps, but not get in.

He goes about getting ready for bed, keeping most of his things in his trunk for the time being, he doesn’t want to make himself comfortable if he’s staying only a day or two. He carries the lantern much closer than he should, can feel its heat before he sets it on the table by the bed and gets under the covers.

They’re cool and heavy, rich fabrics, and clean. And he feels himself sinking into the soft down of the pillows quickly, eyes closing to welcome sleep despite the chorus of howls outside, now past, he supposes, the drawbridge, and closer to the castle proper.

Sometime later, when the night has grown silent and cold for as high as they are, Will stirs in his sleep and wakes to find a fire has been laid in his hearth and is growing slowly to warm the room, but there is no sign of a servant, and his door remains locked when he checks it. His bed is a warm beckoning place, and he surrenders curiosity in favor of comfort, sinking into a deep and dreamless sleep in his exhaustion.

-

Morning comes with startling beauty. Will does not wake until late, and only then to the knock on his door. The Count has either slept late himself, or been kind enough to let Will sleep until he must surely be rested. Strangely he does, and rouses only slowly.

He pulls on his dressing gown against the chill, and the Count admits himself when he is certain Will is ready. He smiles politely, and waits in the sitting chamber while Will dresses, his eyes directed out the window. Chancing a glance, Will finds he can see much further in the daylight, and that the countryside below is beautiful, untouched. It feels almost forbidding, save where the sunlight touches the strongest.

"You look rested," the Count observes. "Do you have any letters to go out? I send back to the village every two days, and perhaps your wife might like to hear from you." 

The Count's eyes flick down toward the wedding band on Will's hand as he takes the extinguished lantern down from the peg where he'd hung it the night before, presumably to have it refilled with lamp oil and made ready for the next evening. With a cock of his head, he indicates the other should follow him down.

Will hesitates a moment. He knows he should write Alana a letter. Knows it would be proper, to tell her that he’s here, that he arrived safely and his first night was pleasant. That he’s working on closing a deal and should be home soon. That he misses her.

“I wrote to her from the train,” he says instead, as he follows the Count down the seemingly endless flights of stairs that seem to cross over and back on each other until, miraculously, they are again in the dining hall.

“I slept very well, thank you,” he adds, deciding not to bring up the unexplained fire in the grate, welcome as it had been. He doesn’t mention, also, that the Count looks well rested himself, though he offers the sentiment in return in asking him if his night was pleasant.

"Most pleasant," the Count agrees, "Though cold." He had slept as one might when they are truly exhausted and satisfied with their day's work. "I won't interrupt breakfast with business. Afterwards I will show you around - up to the study, and perhaps down around the grounds. Unless you would prefer to see straight to business."

Count Lecter's tone suggests he would not mind a slight delay for their pleasure, to let Will hit his stride before he insisted that they take things too seriously.

Breakfast is laid out as dinner had been, lavish and abundant, and seemingly from nowhere at all. Enough to feed an entire castle full of people, yet they are the only two at the table. Will allows himself to enjoy as much as he can, as the Count seems not to hold himself back when doing the same. His host, he decides, is strange but in a pleasing way. He has all the decorum of a man of his standing, but he relaxes in Will’s presence as though they were old friends and not men meant to do business together. He is yet unsure if he likes it or is confused by it.

Though, again, he does not mention it.

After, Hannibal leads him without, to show him the grounds. "The earth here is tricky," he says, and the soil is dark and rocky beneath their feet, sandy in places. "Forbidding," he sighs. At the back of the castle, a small garden grows in sad standings... save for the overflowing arbors. "It is well watered with the blood of the Turks in the ages past, and very little grows, save the grapes."

Tucking his hands behind his back, Hannibal passes beneath the arches and looks up. "It's this why I want to move someplace kinder to things that grow. Human, animal, and plant." 

He smiles apologetically, as if for bringing the man all the way here just to get him to someplace new. For a moment, he seems lonesome. Perhaps he is - Will has not seen another living soul since arriving at the castle, though there must be - to put the food out and see to the horses.

Will follows, lets his eyes take in everything and marvel at it. It would be difficult to imagine a person living as Hannibal was, if Will wasn’t here himself witnessing it. it’s both magical and almost painfully sad.

“Perhaps, then, London may not be the best choice.” He offers finally, his smile is genuine if a little apologetic. At the look he receives, Will elaborates. “As a city it does not offer much in the way of growth. Perhaps in industry, but rarely in nature.” He turns to take in the garden from this new view, trying to fathom how old it is, how long this garden, and the castle, have been in the Count’s family, wonders why, beyond lack of company, he would want to give it up.

“What would you seek in a property?” he asks after a moment, turning to politely address the man again. he can talk business without cues, without photos or pages outlining properties. He needs to see if what he has to offer is something Hannibal wants, if it’s even worth bringing out the dull paperwork and spreading out the files and expensive photos over the dining hall table.

“Would you rather the space, the chance to have something grow that you could tend to?” he continues, “Or the proximity of company?”

He technically wouldn’t have to sacrifice one for the other, they had properties in the country that had neighbours close by, if that was what Hannibal wanted, though they were not as large as his current abode nor as spectacular.

"I was lead to believe that there were estates perhaps that could suit my needs in both categories," the Count seems pleased to slide gently into business, rather than heavily and awkwardly changing. He moves past the garden, leading them to complete a circuit around the castle grounds - those huddled closest to the castle itself, where it does not directly meet the cliff face. "But I am not averse to driving for the comforts of company, if it means a better place to keep a garden."

"Have no worries that I'm looking for anything to match this," he smiles, warm, and leads them back toward the kitchen doorway he had brought them out of. "I have no use of so much space even one time over." A second large estate would just be more upkeep than it was worth. "My requirements are simple - ample grounds, and large cellar. Dark and dry."

He tilts his head. "Show me what you have to offer?" he asks, pleasantly, and he tucks his hands behind his back, but his eyes seem to catch on Will a moment longer than is strictly polite, before he continues the motion and lets them into the white space of the kitchens. The lower castle seems mostly white, the walls painted to keep the spaces as light as possible.

Will’s eyes narrow at the unspoken challenge and he follows as he’s lead. As a person, he has a lot to offer. Professionally, he is excellent; convincing, charming, clever, he can sell anything to anyone if he puts his mind to it and forgets to feel guilty. He doubts, however, that that was what the challenge was for. Just as he doubts it was for being shown the properties available. Regardless, Will doesn’t let his mind think more on it and instead requests the chance to retrieve his paperwork.

He mounts the main staircase with the Count’s amused eyes following, and somehow, miraculously, manages to find his room without incident. It’s not so difficult, in daylight, when he can memorise the patterns of the stairs and how many doors to count down before he reaches his own. It takes him less than ten minutes to return with what he needs and he waits for the Count to lead them to where he wants to examine the offerings he’s requested.

The room they end up in can only be the study, but it can only be so in name, it’s far too grand to be something so simple. It’s more a library, filled with books and tall ladders to reach those far above the heads of anyone entering. It’s a light room, with windows wide and overlooking the part of the garden they had passed upon their return. The view past it is exquisite and Will takes a moment to just let his eyes roam, taking in the mountains and the forest, hints of rivers or lakes so far below them they look like a child’s train-set toy.

When he turns back, he smiles, holding up the files in a silent request as to where to put them.

Beckoning Will deeper into the space, he shows him to a wide table, old and worn with the touches of countless before them, scarred and dignified with age. It looks more appropriate for plotting the defense of the castle than what's proposed, but offers more space than the elegant desk, and a place for both of them to sit comfortably as Will lays out his papers.

The Count leans close at his shoulder as they go over the properties, but he does not seem to radiate much heat, and he instinctively seems to know when Will is going to move, shifting out of the way at the correct time. It keeps him close, but not truly intrusive.

He stays difficultly silent through most of the explanation of properties and benefits, taking the information in with attentive eyes and occasionally reaching for a page to see the specifics. For all that, he is patient, and with no explanation he sorts the papers as Will describes them, and winds up with three properties in one stack, and the rest in another.

"One of these," he says at last, tapping the pages with his finger. "But I will need some time to think on it - unless you have further information that would suit one of them more to my needs?"

The last is almost a joke, delivered with a smile over his shoulder as he leans over the table to leave his palm on the stack of three that he intends to think further on. "And you will stay to help me get all my travel affairs in order? I have never travelled far , I'm afraid. I would feel quite helpless without a guide."

Will feels a little taken aback. He has had difficult clients before, but never ones that remained near-stoically silent throughout the time he spent talking. Never once giving even an inch until the very end. The three properties that the Count has chosen include two Will had hoped he wanted and one that was completely unrelated to any of his requirements, though it was the most expensive of the ones Will had offered.

He wonders if he’s being played, if he had been sent on a fool’s errand by Jack to get him out of London for a time, lord only knew why. He supposes, if anything, he should be grateful for the opportunity to be allowed to stay in such a beautiful place in such an unusual country.

He thinks over the question, phrased as a command rather than a request, before nodding.

“Of course.” Crawford’s firm held such a good client base because all their needs were seen to. If they wanted a property, they got one. The tour, the price negotiations, everything. If they wanted travel arrangements well… then Will would stay long enough to help with those as well. “Anything you need.”

He finds it too late to retract the tone he’d murmured the last offer with, one that mirrored Hannibal’s earlier challenge to see what Will had to offer. Perhaps, in its own way, it was the appropriate reply.

Suddenly, he has Hannibal's full attention, and the Count meets his eyes sidelong with a knowing gaze, a faint smile, and a moment of hesitation. But he does not take it any further.

The Count nods, as if he had expected the best anyway, or at the very least an offer to have someone come to see to his needs - though he seems relieved that Will does not even hesitate. After a moment, he smiles, warmly, clearly pleased. "Give me a week to think, and to make my arrangements."

His tone is of one genuine appreciation - he understands he has made an imposition, for which he is appropriately apologetic. He draws back in a slow motion, and then settles comfortably across the table from Will. "Will you tell me about London?" he asks, now that business has settled. He leans an elbow on the table and puts his feet up on another chair, settling his chin against his curled fingers and regarding William through interested, heavy lidded eyes. 

"I am sorry to keep you from your wife for so long," he continues, as if suddenly realizing. "I can arrange a letter to go out for you tomorrow so that she will not worry. She must miss you often, in your line of work."

Will notices, again, the same pose as the man reclines back, prepared to listen and expecting Will to speak. He wonders what more the man is used to expecting. The mention of Alana again sparks a strange duality in Will, the knowledge that he should be missing her and needing to write, and the feeling that he just doesn’t care. It’s cruel to think that, really, they had been childhood friends, married because it seemed they should have. They weren’t unhappy but Will doubts he is the only one in the relationship finding it wanting.

“I will write her something this evening,” he assures the man instead, “It can wait for the next time you send back to the village.” He pauses a moment before addressing the other part of the statement, fiddling with his ring absently before offering a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “She understands my work and the benefit it brings.” Is all he says.

The Count's eyes light with understanding after a moment, and he does not persist. The answer seems to relieve him in a way, but he is patient enough to keep exactly why to himself. It seems to go along with the rest of his picture of comfortable patience. 

When Will settles in his space it is not quite as relaxed as the Count, but he isn’t tense. For a moment they do nothing more than look, meeting the other’s eyes before Will presses his lips together and clears his throat.

“London is noisy.” He starts, the smile that lifts the corners of his mouth this time a little more amused, “A constant movement, day and night. Merchants, tradesmen, carriages upon carriages of people coming and going. It’s a living city.” He says it in a way that doesn’t imply Hannibal’s current home is dead, far from it, but the life here is an old one, the heartbeat of the earth and the mountains and wind rather than industry and man-made progress. London is a young life where this land is an ancient one.

"It sounds refreshing," Hannibal answers, with a faint chuckle. "You have seen how fearful the villagers are here - of wolves and strange men and anything else." He shakes his head, and glances away, eyes gone dark for a moment. Outside, the sky looms with clouds, pressing out the sunshine of the morning. "They are afraid of ghosts and monsters, so they tuck down into their homes and refuse to live."

"I have grown tired of the sluggish pulse of this place. It beats through one and makes them feel old," he continues. Hannibal traces a line along the table top, a vague motion as if to mimic taking flight or simply gathering velocity. Then he simply swallows, as if to continue, but his mouth works only once and he says nothing more immediately. He just licks his lower lip once slowly and then passes his teeth over it to press. 

Will watches, not for the first time wondering how old the Count is and why it was right now that he chose to seek out property abroad, chose to leave his home for something else. He finds his eyes following the press of teeth against lip as surely as he had followed the path of Hannibal’s finger against the wood grain. He doesn’t avert his eyes so much as allow them to gently slide lower, away from the tempting image that makes him want to lick his own lips to mirror.

“I hope you enjoy London enough before its pulse makes you feel tired.” He says, blinking and raising his eyes to Hannibal’s again, though the look is not returned.

After a long moment of silence, contemplating, Hannibal says. "I'll see soon enough."

He stands, stretching, limbering himself out. "I have some things to see to before dinner. Don't stray from the paths you know within the castle - or would you prefer I saw you back to your quarters?"

Will’s smile is brief but there. “I can find my way.” He says, though he is almost wont to leave the room of books, certain as he is that he will not find anything in English to be able to hold his attention. He hesitates a moment, stands, and then takes a quick breath before asking.

“Would it be an imposition to spend some time in here?” his brows are furrowed as though he already regrets the request, but he doesn’t retract it, “I grew up surrounded by books, I fear it’s become a compulsion to explore places that remind me of home.”

"No imposition at all," Hannibal says, pleased with the request. "I learned much of my English amongst these books." Reaching out, he runs his fingers along the spine of a thick tome nearby, affectionate. "You'll find many in your language." 

He gestures toward a comfortable looking corner by a window, where a cushioned bench looks like a welcoming place to settle. It is not too far from the hearth, where a cold fire has been laid, waiting only to be lit. "Be comfortable," he suggests to Will. "Dinner is in a few hours, I will come and find you. Light the fire if you grow cold - the evenings here will only get colder, I'm afraid." 

With that, the Count excuses himself, though he hesitates in the doorway of the study to glance back, as if to be certain Will has everything he needs, and then he continues on, careful to close the heavy wooden door behind him, after taking a lamp to see himself back through the hall. 

Will takes a moment, a few, to let the silence of the room fill him with that strange light feeling one gets in unusual places. It’s odd how much leniency he’s allowed, though he hasn’t shown himself to be less than trustworthy to not earn it. He takes his time perusing the library, climbing to the top of one of the ladders more to see how high it feels than because he has a particular volume in mind to get from that height.

He selects a classic, Plato’s Symposium, before making himself comfortable in the seat Hannibal had suggested. The book is light in his hands, the pages so thin he worries he’ll damage them just by turning them, though they prove resilient. Will reads until the light from the window is no longer adequate, then he sets the book aside and rubs his eyes.

He knows he should write, to Alana, to Jack, to tell them both that all is well, to tell Alana that he’s safe, that he’ll be gone a while more yet, to reassure Jack that the client is interested and the sale will definitely go ahead, it’s just a matter of place and price. It’s that, more than anything, that stops him getting up immediately to write. The fact that Hannibal has yet to choose a property, perhaps also the knowledge that the letters won’t be posted for another day at least that stays his hand.

He isn’t sure when his mind relaxes enough to no longer linger, to instead drift between slow breaths and the regular beat of his heart, but when Will’s hand drops to rest against his chest he does not move it. he turns his head to the window instead, allowing the last of the daylight to illuminate the garden. He can see snow slowly starting to drift to cover the branches of the naked trees there, light enough to not yet weigh them down, and wonders if it’s snowing yet in London. He’d left weeks ago, and it had been colder, the leaves no longer on the trees outside the house he shared with Alana, clouds gathering ominously but never quite spilling their snow.

A shadow passes under the branches and Will blinks, unsure for a moment if his eyes are playing tricks with the way the daylight is slowly fading from the world around him. The stag is abnormally large, would stand tall above Will, its shoulders high enough to brush his cheek were he to step close enough. But he doesn’t. Just watches the wild animal walk through the garden and pause before turning to look at him through the glass.

There’s something about the animal that sets a deep fear in Will’s chest, something dangerous and unreal, otherworldly and powerful… a wind curls its fingers through the garden and feathers stand up against the stag’s flanks, not fur. Will blinks again and the stag shifts closer. It’s an unusual standoff, a man and a beast, separated by the double-glazed window and the stone arch supporting it, but Will sits up and presses his hand against the glass as though he could slide right through it, as though he wants to.

The animal shakes its head, dislodging what snow has managed to cling to its antlers, and turns. And Will rises to follow.

-

The Count finds the room dark and cold, and Will nowhere to be found. The cushions of the bench have clearly been reclined upon, and are still faintly warm, but the fireplace had never been lit, and the cold is pervasive. He lifts his lantern and supposes the man might have retired to his quarters to sleep.

He finds Will on the stairs, wandering sightless and sleeping. The Count could not begin to guess at his dreams, but the expression on his features is not blissful sleep. The habit is a dangerous one in the castle. 

"Mr. Graham," he tries, reaching out to touch his shoulder gently. The spirits of this place were dangerous when they called to a sleepwalker - and he knew that it was dangerous to wake one. Perhaps more dangerous still to leave him in the power of his own dreams.

It’s his name that turns Will’s head, though the touch yields no one when he looks. He hears the stag snort, closer now than he remembered it being before he’d turned away, and he lets out a breath of his own, slow and trembling, before he turns back.

He’s met with familiar eyes, human, though they share the color of the animal’s that he had been following steadily into the woods. Will blinks, and the Count mirrors the gesture, perhaps subconsciously. When Will blinks again, his eyes widen, breath coming in a quick gasp of surprise and he catches himself on the handrail of the stairs, clinging to it to stay upright and figure out how he’d gotten from the forest to the stairwell. Hannibal’s look of concern is not quite reassuring.

“I’m sorry I –“ he isn’t even sure what to say. The disorientation is familiar, though he’d hoped that with age and time away from common London stressors his tendencies to sleepwalk would abate.

“It seems late.” He settles on, somewhat less than eloquently.

"I grows dark early in the mountains," Hannibal allows politely, but he does not state the time. Instead he settles his hand more firmly against Will's shoulder and turns him, holding the lamp in his other hand to guide them back. "I should have warned you that dreams come often here. It seems a place for them."

The shadows pull heavier in the halls in this part of the castle, and the air here is disused and stale. Their steps leave imprints in the dust on the floor of the hall. "It's a product of the thinner air, the cold... and the surroundings."

He offers an apologetic smile, holding the lamp high, without letting his other hand fall from Will's shoulder steadying and guiding. "Do you always wander, or were you called by something here?"

Will accepts the support for as long as he needs it. when he no longer does, it seems almost rude to brush the man away.

“I haven’t for a long while,” he answers honestly, because how can he lie? “It used to be triggered by stress but here… perhaps I’m still too tired, my body needs the time to adjust to the weather and the length the days are here.”

He offers an apologetic smile and considers the other part of the question, wonders if the Count asks out of jest or because he has experienced similar things himself. The castle does still seem far too large for just one man, even for a large family it seems excessive, perhaps these halls house more than dormant memories.

“I saw a stag in the garden,” he says finally, rubbing his eyes, “I was certain I was awake. But when it turned away I followed.”

The Count listens intently, and after a time, they find themselves back in the more used parts of the castle. The lamps are again lit in the hallways and the space is clean and free of dust. "A dangerous place for a stag to be," The Count observes. Outside, the chorus of the night slowly wakes as if to lend credence to his observation.

The Count chuckles, and the chilling spell of the howls is broken. "Certainly there is stress from travel, from the unknown. From danger, too - just enough to be interesting. I find I dream often, equal numbers of sweet and terrifying."

Dinner is laid out in a slightly smaller scale this evening, but still with excellent attention to detail, and promising to be as fulfilling as the other times Will has eaten here. "Old lands call up old dreams, perhaps it is part of the human condition to remember such things gone past as we sleep. If you would prefer not to dream I can arrange a nightcap?"

Again Will simply listens, finds that the rhythm of the man’s voice – a subtly different one to how native speakers carry English – soothing and pleasant. He finds he almost laments the loss of the heavy warm weight of the Count’s hand on his shoulder when it leaves.

The smell of dinner brings him around, somewhat, clearing his mind of the stag he’d seen and soothing his movements into more natural ones as he takes his seat. The offer of a nightcap is a rather tempting one, and he considers.

“Some people would also claim dreams are prophetic,” Will suggests as he selects a piece of dark rye bread and gently pulls it apart, “Especially to someone who submerges in them as deep as I do. Wouldn’t holding them at bay be going against something out of our control?” he smiles, it’s ironic, not meant to be serious, “Or do you not share those superstitions?”

"If God chose to send us dreams," Hannibal says slowly, serving them both dinner, "How could we ever hope to properly understand them? There is supposed to be such a divide between us."

Hannibal smiles gently, and settles down in the chair across from Will, once they both have full plates. For just a moment, the look seems to know him wholly, intimately, before he takes up his wine glass. "We often hold at bay those things outside of our control. We hold death at bay, we hold others in check with our expectations at times."

Taking a long sip, Hannibal lets his gaze wander away, as if utterly innocent. "At times we hold our very natures against all that they are naturally. What is so different about staving off dreams that could tell us our tomorrows?"

“Some men would kill to know their tomorrows,” Will points out, mirroring Hannibal’s gesture and enjoying his wine. Though he highly doubts that dreams of following a stag into the dusty parts of the castle have anything prophetic to offer him. they enjoy the rest of their dinner in relative silence, savoring the food and enjoying the wine until Will feels, if not light headed, then lighter. It’s a pleasant feeling after a rather successful day. He certainly had interest in the properties, it was simply a matter of time before they settled on a price and had to begin travel arrangements.

It hits him in this warm and pleasant state that he will be spending at least another month with this man, if not longer. The travel alone back to London takes that long. He supposes he could be in much worse company.

“Do you plan to enter society in London?” he asks, savoring his fourth – perhaps fifth – glass of wine as he meets Hannibal’s unwavering stare, though he too looks to be affected by the wine, if not as much as Will. “Take a wife? Settle?”

Hannibal refills his glass as it empties, but never before it has gone - giving Will the opportunity to know how much he is drinking if he cares to. However, he drinks a glass for every one that Will does, and he leans back a little further, lets his posture open just a little more as his eyes grow glassy bright in the hall, where it seems to grow darker by degrees as the fire slows from flames to embers.

"Settle certainly. As to taking a wife - well, no men know their tomorrows in advance. I have not found the life of a bachelor to be overly objectionable as yet," his voice is low, pitched for gentle discussion, but it means they both must pay attention for the answers of the other. "Perhaps I will become enraptured by someone."

Letting his eyes fall further toward closed, Hannibal assumes a sleepy and almost alluring expression, focused as he is on the way Will's hands work as he speaks, or work on the stem of the wine glass. He keeps his own still, folded gently against his ribs as he rests, or lifting one to take up his glass on occasion.

"Will you settle?" he asks in turn, curious. "Travel suits you now, but will it always?

Will sighs, running a hand through his hair absently before sitting back himself, not quite as open in his posture as the Count but certainly more open with the warmth of wine. He knows he should settle, that it would be right to settle. That he and Alana should start a family and live as people of their class were required to. But it all seemed so dull to him, the idea of a settled life.

“No men know their tomorrows,” he repeats, smile languid and the tilt of his head a little too smooth. His eyes narrow, “Though if I happen to see something of interest to either of us I will make sure you know.”

He waits a beat before ducking his head and addressing the questions properly. He feels his evasion is bordering on rude.

“I should settle,” he admits with a nod, “I should be happy to. I have a comfortable home and a job and a partner but…” he bites his lip, frowning as he tries to find some sort of justification and coming up short. There is absolutely no reason for him to not settle with Alana and live as they should. Well, perhaps the reason that he loves her but only in a way a friend might, or a brother. intimacy between them is infrequent and strange and Will finds himself taking jobs farther abroad when the notion of more arises.

Perhaps he too hasn’t yet found someone to be enraptured by. He doubts, however, that with his preferences he will be successful even if he were to leave Alana. She’s not a stupid woman, he supposes she knows. But he doesn’t want to do wrong by her if he can help it, and it’s getting harder to, with the look he’s getting across the table and the subtle way the floor seems to tilt and he rests his feet flat on it.

"You are young, yet," Hannibal assures him that he at least does not judge William on that merit. He pours them both another glass of wine, and then they have done in the last of the bottle and he does them the immense favor of not fetching another. "There is time for wanderlust yet."

He makes no excuse for his own, save that perhaps there are times when the onset is delayed by some responsibility or early maturity and only manifests when one is freed from those tethers. Hannibal licks his lower lip again, sips, and listens to the quiet of the evening.

"There is such pressure to settle the instant you find even the least happiness these days," Hannibal continues, at length. He takes his time, patient. "But I find that if you do not renew it, it fades with time. Ideals from society indicate endurance." He watches Will intently, with a tempered gaze, and seems to lose track of what he's saying, trailing off. There is the wine to blame. 

"I've kept you up," he seems to realize at last, getting to his feet in a motion that is slow with intoxication, but still manages some sinuous grace.

Will watches the man move, knows there is far more meaning to his words than Hannibal explicitly states, but the wine is numbing his hearing to only the first layer of meaning and he can't shake it. He smiles at the Count's words when he stands, but doesn't yet follow him to do the same. He savors the rest of his glass and empties it before dragging his chair out and standing. His movement not quite as graceful as the other man's but certainly not ungraceful in his attempt to mirror.

"As I have kept you," he offers politely, smile languid and eyes at half-mast. He is pleasantly drunk, enough to know he is but not yet enough to allow himself to lose all propriety and inhibition. Though parts of him certainly want to, it would be easy to.

"I am often up late into the evening hours," the Count answers, gracious with the truth. "You have not kept me any more than I keep myself."

"Perhaps we both need the rest." he thinks back to the paperwork in the study that they will need to get to in the morning, how tedious it will be once they get to price negotiations and travel arrangements. He almost doesn't want to, despite that being the reason he was here in the first place. He turns his head to the door leading from the hall that he knows they'll take to get to the main staircase, and smiles.

"Before the wolves choose to grace us with another symphony."

"They do sing for their supper," Hannibal chuckles, letting Will lead but content to see him to his room. He does not repeat the offer for a nightcap - perhaps they had both taken one or two downstairs together, rather than just prior to bed. "I find it comforting," he reveals. "I can see how it wouldn't be."

Will just laughs, hand sliding up the handrail as they walk, to keep himself balanced and because the cool wood felt pleasant against his palm.

"You will find wolves in London of a different sort," he tells him. They walk abreast but Will's head is ducked, voice directed downwards more than it is at the man at his side. "Unfortunately they do not sing. If they did I doubt it would be a comfort."

When they reach Will's door he lingers for a second, leaning in to hang the lamp again. "Do you think you will stay put as you sleep this time?" he asks, "Or would it be safer to lock your door?" 

Will turns to his companion and his eyes narrow in contemplation. "My door was locked when last I slept," he reminds him. He opens his mouth to mention the fire, perhaps ask about it, but then thinks better. Perhaps he'd dreamed it or worse, done it himself. He presses his lips into a smile instead.

"Perhaps for a few nights a lock would not go amiss." he wonders how far his quarters are from Hannibal's, if he could accidentally walk to his room and past it were he to know where it was. The idea is killed before it gains speed and Will inclines his head, wishing the man good night instead.

"It will keep the wolves at bay," Hannibal promises, eyes bright. He does not suggest which wolves. "I wish you pleasant dreams, Mr. Graham."

The Count sees himself out, leaving the lamp behind again, and behind him the key turns in the lock. Outside the Wolves stay still, as if holding their breath in the still air. It is almost worse than when they howl.

-

Will sleeps deeply, heavy limbed and feeling almost drugged with the wine's effects - it had been a fine vintage and gone down easier than perhaps it should have. Despite that he wakes sometime in the night, stirring drowsily at some presence in the room. Suddenly, he feels he is not alone, but when he looks up, there is only the room. The lamp has been extinguished, either by time or by that invisible hand.

In the fireplace, another blaze lives, and Will blinks sleepily at its welcome heat before he turns over in bed and sinks down comfortably to sleep. It is difficult to tell if the sound the key makes turning in the lock again is just his imagination. Nothing else wakes him until truly late the next morning, when Hannibal taps lightly on his door to wake him, and then again when Will is sluggish to answer, before he allows himself in.

He carries cold water, warm water, and a basin. "I thought I would bring breakfast up," he says, pleasant, tone low in consideration. "If the thought of it does not weaken your stomach."

He settles the basin on the intended pedestal, and the cool pitcher goes aside, for Will to partake of as he'd like. The other, he swings over the fire on a hook designed for such. 

Will squints against the light in the room but it's not bad enough to send him moaning under the covers again. He takes his time to swing his legs over the side of the bed, though, to rub his eyes until he can see properly. The pitcher of cold water is enticing, especially with how dry Will's mouth is after a night sprawled somewhat gracelessly on his back, breathing through parted lips. He considers a moment before deciding he could excuse himself for the impulsive rudeness were Hannibal to respond, and taking up the pitcher to drink from the lip. 

It's refreshing and wonderful and he almost groans at the feeling, the taste of it. He realizes the Count is still waiting for him to answer his earlier question, and the silence is growing long enough to be rude here. Will tries to ignore his state of semi-undress as he answers.

"I wouldn't trouble you," but it's clear that the question was just as much a statement as it was inquiry, just as the basin and the attention paid to filling it was deliberate. Will wonders again if there is anyone else in the castle besides them, if somehow Hannibal manages to both cook and set dinner in front of them without showing any effort behind it, with distracting Will somehow so he can't see the work being done.

It's possible, though Will considers it highly unlikely. Though the fact that the Count himself is tending to Will so meticulously does make him pause.

Perhaps it is a prerogative of foreign hospitality that Will is treated to such personal attention. Or perhaps they are the only living souls for miles, at this particular moment it barely matters.

Hannibal assures Will that it is no trouble at all, with a faint smile. "I would not mind a more subdued breakfast myself," he suggests, as Will stirs and drinks as much as a man parched. When he pours the water from the heating pot into the basin, it wafts steam invitingly. Hannibal lingers for just a moment, trailing his fingers through the water to be sure, before he turns to give Will his privacy.

When he returns, Will is still washing, but the Count betrays nothing but a flicker of interest as he carries in the tray on which an elegant silver service bears a simple breakfast. It is a basic offering, but rounded. Complete, and warm. Hannibal carries it to the sitting portion of Will's chambers, and settles it on the writing desk. 

"I hope you slept soundly," he suggests, quiet. "I found myself quite unable." 

Will makes quick work of his morning routine – deciding to forego shaving for the moment – and dresses before joining Hannibal at the desk. He takes the chair by the door – intended, perhaps, for the serving staff to use while the occupant of the room had guests – and brings it forward so they both have something to sit on and gives Hannibal a concerned look.

“Are you unwell?”

Perhaps the wine had affected them both differently, and Will had been lucky to sink into a rather pleasurable warm sleep while Hannibal suffered. He leans forward to pour them both generous cupfuls of rich coffee, leaving enough for cream and sugar in case the Count wanted it, before sitting back to wait for his answer.

"Simply thoughtful," Hannibal smiles, appreciative for the concern. He accepts the cup, and takes cream, then offers the silver creamer to Will. He does not seem to much be suffering from the night before, but perhaps from an overactive mind. "I have started my arrangements. I find I am excited for the change in situation."

Hannibal takes a long sip of coffee and allows his eye contact to say the rest - he had a preoccupation as well. He does not say anything on the subject, however. Breakfast is revealed to be simple - eggs, bacon, thick white toast and a dark jam that reveals itself to be blackberry. Such as to cure the lingering affects of the previous evening.

"I have many letters to write today," he almost laments. "I'm certain you know all that must be arranged - movers, a caretaker for the castle. What else should I look toward?"

Will savors the coffee and meets Hannibal's eyes unblinking. He finds the strange aura and power he'd felt radiating from the man the night before to not be dulled by his apparent lack of rest. He reaches to spread the jam on a slice of toast and considers the question. Arrangements would be made primarily by Will, so he can most certainly relate to the lament regarding letter writing.  
He remembers he needs to write Alana, as well. He takes a slow, careful bite of toast and hums at the taste.  
"The rest I can take care of," Will assures him with a smile, "A lot is organized on the other side of the Channel. Have you decided on an estate?" They had left the three potential choices the night before, but Will had never heard whether one had found more preference than the others with the Count.  
"I have written to an associate on what would be the best given my considerations," Hannibal explains smoothly. "Personally I think the most of the Poplar territory, but for my intents I'm not certain it totally suits."

He eats neatly, using his fork even for the bacon - the tines are sharp enough to pierce it even though it is mostly crisp. Hannibal makes an appreciative sound, however, at the notion that Will is going to see to the rest. "There's not much I wish to take with me, but there is some."

"Is the sea voyage terribly long? I know you have been traveling some time," Hannibal continues, curious. Then he sits back and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I'm interrogating you. Tell me rather what you most enjoy about traveling, I am more interested in you than the details of our undertaking." 

Will laughs, more a low vibration in his throat, but it's genuine. The questions were all legitimate, in no way interrogatory; he did not mind answering them.

"The sea voyage depends mostly on the sea," he says eventually, pouring himself more coffee as he sits back and regards the man in front of him. It's an interesting set up, this almost intimate breakfast, the first time they haven't taken a meal in the main room. He finds it more comfortable than he thinks it should be. "I was lucky this time, the weather was kind. Occasionally, it's rough enough to feel as though you've been on the ocean for months, but it's only hours."

He sips his coffee slowly, eyes narrowing in though as he contemplates the next part of the question, licking his bottom lip absently at the thought that he was interesting than the arrangements themselves. A throwaway comment, perhaps, from anyone else, but he knew the Count meant it.

"I enjoy knowing that I'm getting somewhere," he says finally, "It's not a permanent destination most of the time, but I am in motion, I'm moving through space, time, getting to a place I have not been before with the notion that I could return whenever I wanted." that was why he had been so adamant to take the job initially, the chance to travel far and often without his savings suffering. "It's freeing to give up control that way, to know that a train is taking you somewhere, or a carriage is, and that you're allowed to witness the beauty of the world around you without the pressure of -" everything, really. He shrugs, feeling he'd said too much. He rarely spoke to even friends about his travels because he found himself, more often than not, waxing philosophical.

"Have you travelled much?" he asks instead.

Hannibal's coffee has drifted up in his hands toward his mouth, but something in Will's tone has caught his attention so it goes still and never quite completes the journey. The question, for the moment, is set aside while he considers the rest of what William had said. 

"Have you ever found yourself not wanting to return?" he asks, eyes bright with curiosity, a faint amusement behind. He does not allow it to reach his tone, instead remaining polite and conversational. There is just something beyond the edge of what one can see that suggests a deeper meaning with the question. "You must have a sailor's soul."

Again, the soft warm sound akin to a laugh, but Will doesn't drop his gaze this time. "I must." he agrees, running his finger along the rim of the cup before pulling it away to draw over his lips instead. It's a distracted gesture, a need to fidget. "There have been times I have found myself wont to return home. But perhaps I was raised too well to forgo all responsibility I'd leave behind there. I always come back."

After a moment, Hannibal finishes his coffee, and sees to the question. "I have traveled some - but mostly east. I have been to Moscow, on occasion. But I would not consider that 'much'. It was mostly on my father's business I went." 

"Was it enough to keep you interested?" Will asks, smile tilting one side of his mouth in a smirk. He doesn't ask about Hannibal's father. The man is not here now, it's not difficult to figure out what happened. But he doesn't offer condolences either, not unless he gets confirmation that the man is, indeed, dead. "You seem like the type of man who would be very difficult to sway unless you had a pointed interest."

"In travel, certainly. In my father's business, not so." Hannibal chuckles, and his own smile answers the smirk William offers. He straightens his back and finally disengages from the perhaps overly intimate posture of leaning he had affected.

"Are you suggesting I'm difficult?" he asks, tone soft and warm and without hint of offense. "I might remind you I am already swayed."

On that note, he settles quiet for a moment, holding off for long enough to reveal that he is perhaps debating the next statement. "Though there is no doubt I am interested."

Hannibal stretches to his feet, having delayed long enough past the end of breakfast to not threaten rudeness, but he takes up the tray afterward, the silver service giving not so much as a rattle when he lifts it. "Feel free to use the study if the writing table in here does not suit you," he continues, as if he had not just been on the very cusp of inappropriate discussion. Perhaps he will play this game as long as it takes for Will to snap. 

Or perhaps he is not playing at all. It is a risk, as always. 

Will nods, the movement jerky and a little graceless, but he says nothing. He watches Hannibal leave, and only when the door is closed does he realize he's still holding his cup, the coffee grown lukewarm. He sets it down and runs a hand through his hair until the corners of his eyes lift. He doesn't need this, not with a client, not ever. He's married. He has commitments and respect and absolutely no desire to lose either. And yet he yearns, so much, to follow the man out and lose himself.

When he settles his mind enough, Will stands and goes to his trunk to retrieve his writing set. Perhaps a little strange to carry one, considering everywhere he goes offers both pen and ink, but he's used to it now, it's a habit that's comfortable. He sets everything out on the desk and regards it, considers for a moment whether or not to take up the offer of joining the man in the study to write there. He knows it would be a distraction, for the both of them, so he pulls a page close to write to Alana first. Perhaps because he knows that's the most pressing letter, perhaps because he wants it written and ready for when he does go downstairs.

-

It's hours later when Will comes down, letters folded carefully and ready to send. It had taken him a lot longer than he'd anticipated to write to Alana, finding a lot to tell her without saying anything at all. He told her of he journey after the train, of the wolves outside his window, of the endless landscape that seems older than life itself here. He tells her of the silence. He does not tell her of the Count beyond a bare mention. He tells her - pen hesitating just a moment - that he loves her and laments that his journey has taken him away from her for so long. It's not fully a lie, though it's difficult to pass as a truth the more Will regards the words.

He wrote to Jack as well, explaining the situation, that the client was certainly interested, and swayed, and would decide shortly on which property he had set his eyes. He assures him that he will handle all the work he can from this end, and that he will stop in to see the man as soon as both he and the Count are in London.

He finds the study after a quiet moment searching, and finds it - for the moment - empty. He sets his finished letters aside and takes up a chair at the large table to sit under pretense of writing another. He does have a lot of things to organize, it would benefit them both if he started sooner rather than not, but he's distracted, listening more for the sound of steps returning to the room than to the words he's penning.

The Count does not appear for some time, perhaps halfway through Will's meandering letter to no one, but when he does it seems to be from deeper in the study - either he had been sitting further in, very still and working, or he passed behind Will unknown. He certainly seems to move silently amongst his own halls, master of the castle.

He carries three books, which he settles back onto the shelves where they must belong. After a moment, he favors Will with a smile, seeing the other looking up from his letters. "A productive day, I see. Would I be interrupting your duties if I asked your interest in an excellent view of the sunset?" 

The Count gestures upward, in indication of the roof perhaps, or the highest tower. "The letters can't go out until the morning anyway," he suggests. "Come up, the night is beautiful when you are safe from it." 

Will smiles and sets the letter aside, barely written and even less coherent. He would start again tomorrow, once they had established which property the Count wanted, so Will could start on the appropriate arrangements regarding preparing the place for his visit.

"The darkness hides all manner of sins, am I safe from those?" he wonders quietly as he stands and gestures for the man to lead the way. He supposes he's allowed himself too deep, now, to not see where the night leads them. He glances back at the letters on the table and chews the inside of his lip before following Hannibal out. He removes his ring in a manner that seems far too practiced, and drops it in his pocket.

The castle seems to grow in size the longer Will lives there. Every day more and more rooms are presented to him, more and more stair cases and grand halls that seem so enormous that it's impossible he's missed them, and yet without Hannibal as his guide he doubts he would ever have seen them. The speak of meaningless things as they walk, Will listening more than contributing as Hannibal explains the origins of a painting or points out the way a certain style differs from another, when the castle was renovated or added to by his father and grandfather before him.

They go up and around, and finally it seems they can go up no further in this portion of the castle. The Duke pauses, and opens a heavy chest by a window, from which he pulls an armful of thick, heavy blankets, before turning, he winks once, and pushes his way through a wall with a knowing touch that turns an ancient hidden door on its silent hinges.

The castle opens for him as no other anymore, perhaps. Beyond, there is a short ladder, and a trap door that opens out and lets in the chill evening air. Hannibal climbs up and turns to offer William a hand up through the trap. 

The freezing air touches and holds quickly, but the view... The castle is built up naturally from a cliff face, fortified on two of its sides by the sheer drop into the landscape below. They are higher than everything in those directions, and beyond the distant, cloud touched peaks of the mountains on the other end of their valley the sun is sinking low. The dark trees below are touched with the last of its sinking light, the sky awash in its own blood. 

Hannibal settles one of the heavy blankets over Will's shoulders before his teeth start to chatter, pulling another around his own as he watches the sight overtake his guest. "If our sin is enjoyment," Hannibal says, his tone warm and his breath causing a fog in the cooling air. "Then I would rather that than piety." 

Will barely hears him, his eyes wide enough to look almost comical as he tries to take in the sight before him. It feels as though they're standing on the edge of the world, with nothing between them and the sky. He gathers the blanket around his shoulders and holds it in place, stepping just a little closer to the edge of the roof. It's ever changing, the sky, darkening and twisting, turning from bloody to bruised in sleek purples and deep blues. Will feels himself grin, hears the breathless laugh that the cold air draws from him before turning back.

His companion is watching the sky, though whether he had been before Will turned is debatable. His skin echoes the shades, dark eyes alert but slightly closed in enjoyment, reminiscent of a cat perhaps. Will presses his lips together before sighing. It's a lesson in futility, coming here. He steps back, stopping shoulder to shoulder with Hannibal, facing away from the darkening sky.

"Perhaps a nightcap?" he suggests, watching Hannibal until the man turns to him, and offering the slightest of smiles, before turning to make his way down the ladder, back into the warm - or warmer - embrace of the castle proper.

The Count follows, descending the ladder when he's sure William has made it all the way down, and closing the trap door behind them to keep the cool from leaking out. This part of the castle is clearly well used - and when Hannibal closes the secret passage again, turning on the spot to show them through another narrow corridor, it becomes apparent why.

Here, at last, seems to be the master bedroom. Or at least the one Hannibal keeps as his, with rounded walls on two sides that suggest it touches the very edges of the tower it is situated in. "Perhaps a nightcap," he agrees - though they have not yet had supper, and it is yet early, he thinks a little courage for both of them won't go utterly awry. 

The room is well appointed, but everything has an aged quality to it. The wood is dark and the style old, detailed. The bed is massive and hung in a heavy, drawn canopy, but the Count pays it no mind. Instead he stops at the sideboard, drawing from within it a fine unmarked bottle of spirits and two small crystal glasses. In the interior light, the color is only faintly green, as if crawling toward yellow and never quite making it.

He pours two, in small amounts - perhaps a quarter of the crystal glasses, appropriate enough for a nightcap. The temperature is cool enough that it does not require ice - nor would he dilute it. The taste on the tongue is hard - anise and the heat of cinnamon, and under it all apple and pear brandy. Strangely, the burn is slow - it is not hard to swallow, but simply warm and grows warmer into the chest as they swallow. 

"Staves off the chill," Hannibal suggests, "If not the nightmares." 

The taste is both unusual and deliciously pleasant. Will savors what little is allowed him and refrains from asking for more; something about the way Hannibal is watching him, seeking a response to his words or the drink or both. Expectant. Amused.  
Unlike most alcohol, where the warmth spreads and lingers enough to feel, the warmth here grows, seeming to take the natural body heat offered and magnify it. Not painfully so but certainly enough to notice. Will licks his lips lightly and sets the glass down.

"I suppose you didn't," Hannibal answers, before he has his own sip, and then a second. The alcohol is potent enough that to drink too much more would be foolish. When they both have finished, the Count claims both their glasses and turns them upside-down on a wooden tray clearly intended for such. "Only a wandering stag."

Will's eyes take in the room again, quickly, and he straightens his shoulders with a gentle roll. It's the epitome of a fairytale setting, grand and exquisitely beautiful, and Will finds his longing from before hum under his skin again. This is not his home, not his country, certainly not his place, but he wants... he feels the alcohol's heat thump off him in a gentle pulse and wonders if Hannibal stepped close enough if he'd feel it too.

It's a pleasant feeling.

"Do you always allow yourself to succumb to enjoyment?" He asks, glancing up. It usually takes much more to loosen his tongue than a lick of alcohol, and he knows whatever he drank is too blame. But he doesn't feel deceived or disadvantaged, just freer. "Or wait for nightfall to mask the harsher tones down to shadows without edges?"

Nothing to cut yourself on, he supposes.

"In some things," the Count allows. "But not all. Do you often hold back from your own?" He turns the question sharply, but with a gentled edge back on Will, but an edge still. "I don't think the night is a place for shame - it is as beautiful as the day, in its separate way."

He finally moves then, languid, but still graceful - but the Count only pulls the heavy blanket that's still around his shoulders off and folds it neatly to set it aside over the top of the sideboard, before he moves to the fireplace where a neat stack of wooden logs is laid out, waiting. He strikes a fire. "You can always chase out the dark," he begins, lifting himself again and shaking out the match before he settles himself deeply into a high backed chair. "But the light is not so easy to dispel." 

Falling into a considering silence, the Count curls his fingers under his chin and makes no secret of the fact that he is watching Will intently. The alcohol's warming effects, the strange slow way the world seems to begin to distort, he must feel them all as well - he had drunk just as Will had. He retains enough control, however, to give it away. To place it squarely into Will's hands, instead, at least for now. 

Will watches. Everything. Because suddenly he can see everything. The graceful movements, more defined, almost outlined against the rest of the room. He draws a hand over his face, feels the way his fingertips catch just lightly against his lips and sighs.  
His body seems to move on its own, the way it bends and twists just so, or perhaps he's just suddenly more aware of everything. He follows the cue and folds the blanket from around his shoulders into a semblance of neatness. He certainly doesn't need it anymore. He lets his hand linger over the heavy wool, feeling the fibers, and reluctantly draws away.  
He has held back on his own enjoyment since marriage, no time to indulge in something meant to be taken care of by the process itself. But how he wants it now... to enjoy the shadows for what they are, the place, the person... certainly the person. The man is a walking temptation.  
So Will walks closer.  
"There is too much light in London," he infprms him, watching the fire slowly crawl up a log and conquer it. His entire body shivers for just a moment and he bites his lip to bring himself back before turning. "Rends night limb from limb. Makes it bend to light's will."

"Such places keep spreading," Hannibal laments. Light always sought to conquer, to blot out, to blind. As much as that, there would always be a place for night. Some things could not be taken. 

He steps close enough for Hannibal to set both legs on the floor, so Will can step closer still between them. He rests his hands on the arms of the chair and bends, back arched in a pleasing way, before parting his lips on a sigh.

"I enjoy nights here. Endless, soft things that know what they are and stay true to it." They're close now, and Will's eyes flick down to watch the Count's lips work in an amused semi-smile before he just can't anymore. Can't deny it or hide it or stop it and he leans closer still, ducking his head so he can slot their mouths together.

The drink has left Will poetic in a pleasing way, if a slightly sad one. Hannibal welcomes him close anyway, as Will leans down over him, closer and closer, as if drawn in on a like. The Count does not touch him until Will bridges the gap, only then do his hands lift to the man's waist, and exert a steady pressure.

The kiss starts hungry, desperate and almost devouring, and Hannibal welcomes it, responds with no less hunger and only slightly more restraint, enough to draw Will forward as the kiss deepens still, the other settling suddenly into the chair as Hannibal guides him over his own lap. He lifts and pushes at one of Will's knees, to get it up over the arm next to it and leave him settled in unquestionable intimacy over Hannibal, with his knees spread enough to leave him open, almost wantonly accessible. 

Now that the distance is closed, that bridge crossed, Hannibal touches him without reserve, and perhaps in a sudden rush, his hands moving along the inside of Will's thighs first, then up, stopping only barely shy and then smiling as Will gasps, right against his mouth, as if he could taste the sudden dizzy pleasure coming off the man.

"How much do you hide in the night," he asks, but he must not expect an answer, as he arches his hips up to push them together. 

And even were he expecting one, Will has none to give. He hides everything. Secrets and wants that he can’t share with his wife, can’t share with friends, can’t share even with himself without feeling as though his entire world is falling apart. He hides sins and the need to commit them, he hides longings for something more than what he has at home. Nights away from London he hides his desire to never return to it.

Right now, however, he isn’t sure he can hide anything.

His gasp turns to something voices, a moan, perhaps, a hum, something that vibrates through his skin to Hannibal’s where the man holds him, and Will turns his head to kiss him again, one hand out to support himself on the arm of the chair not currently occupied and the other in Hannibal’s hair at the back of his neck, both holding close and pulling closer.

His blood runs hotter, either his patience has come to a complete end or something in the glass has ignited him in a way Will is unused to. It’s freeing but it’s also terrifying; he has no qualms whatsoever about pressing closer, pushing his hips down, presenting himself more and more. But he can feel that they are both enjoying this, that the Count is gasping just as surely under Will as Will is above him. he does not venture his hand down just yet, content to be touched and to hold on, but he does move closer, somehow, until he’s both straddling the man and pressing him back, sitting higher than he is, the way his leg is bent and body arranged, and ducking his head to pant his wants wordlessly against him.

“How much do you reveal?” he gasps instead.

Sliding a palm up Will's side, Hannibal grips at the back of the man's shoulders, as high as he can reach with Will sitting over him, the other settled over one of Will's bent knees as he feels the other writhe and pant, and his own patience is nearly as poor at the moment, driven quickly by Will's impatience and the soft urgency of his motion and the breath against his ear.

"You'll soon find out," he assures, and he turns his head to affix his mouth over the quick pulse in the other man's neck gently, allows just a hint of his teeth, and then a little harder when Will makes a soft noise and he discovers that it's satisfying in a visceral way to his tactile sense. He is careful not to mark, but the gesture is almost possessive, and the way Hannibal's nails scratch through the fabric of Will's pants on their way up to finally press his palm over Will's erection through the fabric.

He does not tease, just strokes in a slow, firm line and feels William roll his hips into it encouraging. "I had begun to wonder if I was wrong," he confesses, his tone sounding loose and easy with intoxication. He licks the sting of his teeth away from Will's neck as he continues his motions, coaxing and changing pace and feeling Will surge into it, hearing how his breath hitches, and his voice answers in a low, approving sound.

And it feels good, senses heightened by whatever it was Will had drunk as well as his own endurance in holding back just snapping. He turns his cheek to press gently against the top of Hannibal’s head until the sensation gets too much and he curls inwards, shifting back in a way that suggested he needed to pause but not stop. He can still feel the way his pulse pushes against the gentle teeth marks at his throat.

“Oh?” he breathes, and it’s only partially a question, the rest is breathless enjoyment – since Hannibal’s pace had not slowed, even with Will’s attempt to distance himself. He doesn’t ask what Hannibal had felt he’d been wrong about; he’s not stupid, and many of the looks the man had given him since his arrival could not be clearer. What Will wants to know is how the idea had emerged in the Count’s mind that he could be right.

He wonders if this just happens, if occasionally Hannibal would have guests, or a visit, and it would dissolve into something like this. Maybe it was his pastime, a custom, who knew, but at that moment he can’t bring himself to particularly deplore it, when he’s in the man’s arms and feeling his body tremble as he steadily loses control of it.

"Mmm," Hannibal's confirmation is wordless, on a breath exhaled. He finally gives Will his space, just a little of it anyway, but it's only to work the hook and eye closure on his pants, and then pull his shirt untucked. He finds the skin of Will's belly to be flush and warm beneath, and he brushes the backs of his fingers there.

"I wondered if there were different signs in England, perhaps," he continues, clearly amused. He manages one button of Will's shirt, two, before their proximity and position render things difficult. He glances up, finds Will almost smirking down at him in amusement, and pushes him back just a little. "Stand up, we'll never manage all these fastenings this way."

Hannibal starts the motion, and it pushes them together briefly before Will is unbalanced enough to have to stand up as Hannibal requested. He moves with urgency to his motions as well, but never with an outright rush - he takes his time to undo Will's shirt buttons properly, to steady his pants at the waist band so he can work them over Will's hips.

Will’s fingers fumble – in the process of unbuttoning Hannibal’s shirt in turn – and he stills as the man unclothes him. it should hit harder than it does, but instead all he can think, with perfect clarity, is that the man has infuriatingly denied telling him what it was he saw, what signs that led to this. He drops his hands, leaving perhaps three buttons still unattended to, holding Hannibal’s shirt against his stomach, and undoes his pants in turn, leaving them part-way open before pressing his palm against him through the cloth.

The slight shift – it is far too graceful and fluid to be a jerk – is reward enough, and Will keep the gentle pressure, slow rubbing, as one hand ventures to attempt the last few buttons on its own. It’s a less than successful endeavour, but by that point he doubts either of them care. He still feels over-hot, in a way that would suggest fever if there was an ache to accompany it, but there is nothing of that unpleasantness.

Instead, he finds, that his skin is almost painfully sensitive to every touch, echoes it even after the touch passes by, and feeds it back until there is an endless loop if just sensation that leaves Will panting weak little sounds of want. he doubts any normal alcohol, imbibed even in idiotic capacities, would get him this desperate this quickly. he relents his teasing only when Hannibal’s fingers skirt cool under his navel and lower, and Will finds his own hands mirroring.

He leans in again, sharing Hannibal’s air, before pressing closer and opening his mouth to another hungry, demanding kiss that swallows the first needy little noises he makes when Hannibal finally touches him.

Each sound seems to run like electricity through Hannibal, a feedback that firms his grip around Will and he rewards each sound that he swallows with a stroke of his fingers, before he draws back to push the shirt off Will's shoulders, to shed his own with the remaining buttons left done, but it inverts over his head anyway. Where Will touches him, his focus seems to magnetize. It's more, it seems to wake fire beneath his skin and shave away at his restraint, further with every encouraging sound. 

Finally he's the one who needs space, and he draws back, exhaling in a long hiss as he shifts away. Hannibal shifts, pushes his own pants off his hips and makes a grab that is almost inelegant for Will's as well, negotiating the mess of shoes and socks in a way that never leaves them quite out of contact.

When they are finally bare Hannibal steps back as if to appreciate his work, but the chair folds him at the knees and leaves him sitting, accessible, and he only has a moment to appreciate Will bared and flush before him, almost radiating heat, before the other joins him on the chair again, and Hannibal lifts him further to explore down the man's neck and over his chest with his mouth, enjoying the taste of skin under his tongue, and the needy sounds that rumble against his mouth as much as push into his ears. 

"Please tell me," Hannibal gasps at last, needing to know if he should be taking more time, "That you have allowed yourself at least once before." He looks up at the dark blue eyes above him, and curls his hand around Will's cock, skin on skin, while the other considers his answer and Hannibal lays him out flat with his eyes, promises him pleasure he will not have to imagine.

By this point it doesn’t actually matter to Will if he has done this before or not. He has certainly not been in the arms of a Count before, he has certainly never been on the verge of losing himself to embarrassing whimpers inside a castle, but did it matter really if he was here now? He takes a moment, lips parted on quick shallow breaths as his eyes slide to barely open at the feeling of Hannibal’s hands, before reassuring him.

“At least once,”

It comes out almost choked, as though it’s a secret he hates sharing, though in the greater scheme of things he should be far more humiliated at having to remove his wedding ring – at having one in the first place, connecting him to someone he cared for but did not love – than at having someone press quick but gentle fingers into him to work him open. At least once. He smiles.

He doesn’t ask the same, just rests one hand against the top of the chair, stretching his body pleasantly to reach, presenting it, and brings his other down to slide over Hannibal’s chest, circling his nipples but only skirting them, teasing. Then he moves it lower, as his hips start an almost uncontrollable rhythm against Hannibal’s hand, to slide his fingers over Hannibal in reciprocation.

It's all he seems to need to know, and he tilts his head back to appreciate the body arched over him, opens his mouth to press his tongue over one of Will's nipples, and then his teeth lightly over the other. He lets Will set his own pace, purring encouragement softly into his skin before he realizes that perhaps if they do not move for something more serious it will be over before they have the opportunity to further pursue it.

He explores the other effect of his touches for a few long moments, and how Will responds - his body arches and twists with each light stroke, and he whimpers into the gentle scratches of Hannibal's nails along his skin. It's intoxicating until his impatience returns, and he has the presence of mind to stand up against Will, to curl his arms around the man's waist and sit him down in the chair instead, sinking to his knees in front of it.

It lets him feel every twitch of Will's muscles against him as he sinks his mouth down over his cock, the sensation of soft, hot skin against his tongue one that he had never quite appreciated as much as he did with it heightened through the effects of the drink to electric sensation, and he groans into it, surprised by his own noise and pressing along the underside with the soft flat of his tongue until he hears Will's voice tear free in earnest.

It’s such a helpless sound, loud and real and Will makes no attempt to stifle it, simply because one sound flows into another and another still and it’s too much effort to keep silent. He presses his hand against his lips, breath stuttering out of him, before he lets it tug his lower lips down as it moves to join his other tangled in Hannibal’s hair. It shouldn’t feel as good as it does, something so simple as being sat down and given pleasure like this, but Will finds he can’t sit still, just as he couldn’t sit quiet.

“Hannibal –“

It’s a gasp more than a particularly articulated word, and a warning. He arches up, fingers digging into his scalp a moment before easing back, head dropped back and lower lip between his teeth. The feedback loop hasn’t eased, the longer Will has the substance in his system the more potent it seems. He’s sure that they could make this last for hours, and by the end of it he would still pass out contented. His toes curl in pleasure in a dangerous precursor and he moans again, the sound lilting, dragged out for a few breaths before his fingers tighten in Hannibal’s hair again.

He wants more than this, to enjoy the night – the proper night – to its full and delicious promise before he may not have another.

It seems that Hannibal's plans are different, or perhaps indicate the same thing along a different path. He hears the warning, feels the desperate clutch of Will's fingers in his hair and does not ease off. Youth will go a long way to getting them both through an entire night of this. And for the moment, Hannibal does not care to exercise control. He has what he wanted, and to his mind he has waited more than long enough.

Drawing back slow, Hannibal pushes the tip of his tongue hard against the head of Will's cock and teases it there, relentless, until Will grabs for him again, until the fingers in his hair cease pulling away and start pulling Hannibal toward him instead, until he cries out so loud it echoes in the rounded chamber and arches into it in a stuttering motion as he cums.

Only seconds pass in bliss before he draws back, turns his head and delivers a sharp bite to the inside of Will's thigh, hard enough to draw him back from his bliss before he sits up a little, still leaning over his lap on crossed arms with the taste still bitter on the back of his tongue.

"I'm not finished with you," he suggests, eyes dark with mischief. "Don't get sleepy, we've only begun." 

Will makes a noise of malcontent at the bite but it fades, in the panting gasps he takes it fades to a hum and then a laugh as his lips draw up and his head falls back. He body is thrumming with energy, his heart hammering against his ribs and the desire, usually washed out by such a powerful orgasm, just as strong as before they started. He presses one hand against his eyes and rubs, just enough to see stars, before dropping it back down, against the place where he can feel the residual sting of the bite.

“I’d hoped not.” He murmurs, letting his head roll gently on his shoulders to duck against his chest and watch Hannibal with a smile. He brings his lip between his teeth again, eyes narrowed as he regards the man on his knees in front of him. it’s a powertrip to be sure, he’s not used to being played with like this. Every time he has done this, it had been quick and messy and satisfying enough for him to not venture to such a place for months again. here, he finds he wants to watch the man fray, to bring him to just as high a level of debauched as he himself will be just to see if he can put him back together later and do it again.

His smile widens when he thinks that he promised to stay another week.

He carefully draws one knee out from under Hannibal where he rests and drapes it over the arm of the chair, casual enough to seem almost habit, but obvious enough to suggest he’s ready for whatever else. His breathing is still uneven, the dizziness pleasant. He wants to slide to the floor and give the man as much pleasure as he had seen fit to give Will, but something in Hannibal’s eyes bids him stay a moment. He’s certain he’ll get his chance.

Hannibal sits back to survey what is arrayed for him, watching the motions of Will's mouth hungrily, and stroking his thumb over the pulse point in William's thigh, feeling the blood pulse beneath. He is pleased with what he's presented, running his hands in reverence over the soft skin along the underside of Will's upraised thigh and into the warm space behind his bent knee. 

Standing, he kisses Will lightly on the lips, and then wordlessly leads the way toward his bed, the command to follow is clear though unspoken. He pulls back a side of the heavy, crimson canopy that hangs between the heavy posts, inviting. 

He should, perhaps, expect the impact that carries him down as he begins to turn, with how much the drink has affected them both, with how he has been teasing, but William pushes him down onto his own bed in a tangle of limbs, and Hannibal chuckles, nearly purring his approval.

"Here is your enthusiasm," he starts, but he gets no further before William's mouth crushes down on his own, with just as much fervor as before, and Hannibal finds his own skin aching for touch, so he arches up into it as Will settles over him in promise or demand. He lifts his hands to pull at Will's shoulders in encouragement, to get them further into the utter darkness within the canopy. Perhaps in this darkness they can hide everything and reveal even more. 

It's an amusing struggle to get over the low board at the foot of the bed but neither seem much hindered. Will presses as close as he can get, mouth moving from Hannibal's lips down his jaw, to his throat, pressing his teeth there in turn to mirror Hannibal's warning from earlier. 

Neither are staying still; Will slides his body to straddle Hannibal properly, feeling how the other arches up into him, a delicious, fluid movement. It's warm, almost too comfortable; Will's head is still buzzing, breathing quick but regular, and he hums, slowing down to taste the skin under his lips properly.

He draws his lips over a nipple, flicking his eyes up to watch for a reaction. 

The Count hisses, drawing in a sharp, pleasured breath. The sensation feels charged, unusually intense for something so simple, and Hannibal digs his nails into Will's shoulders in encouragement. His own eyes have fallen closed, and he allows himself to remain as open and accessible as William had been to him.

William surprises him with his enthusiasm, his failure to hesitate now that he has taken the initiative, and Hannibal encourages him, pushing to get his way through fairly direct encouragement, but he never quite insists. Just exerts pressure on Will's shoulders, and then when the man works his way downward, he lifts his voice in soft moans of encouragement.

Teasing, Will does not go any lower than his stomach, teasing, taking his time. He lingers, hands stroking down Hannibal's thighs, until Hannibal is ready to beg - but not willing. The Count shifts and arches, and then scratches at Will's back in warning. 

It’s clear enough, and Will sinks lower, first licking, then sucking Hannibal down as he feels the sting of the marks on his back throb themselves into his memory.

It’s not hot within the canopied bed so much as very obviously enclosed; all the sounds they make are pushed back against them. Will can feel his own body stirring in renewed interest but concentrates on Hannibal for the moment, out of practice but keeping the pace quick and the pressure pleasurable as he works his way to a rhythm they can both sustain.

He wonders if he could honestly answer, if Hannibal asked him, how long it’s been since he’s allowed himself to let go. there were occasional slips, when Will found himself craving something, craving this, and had indulged in it. most of his experiences had happened before the marriage, he’d tried so hard to make that work, for Alana’s sake as well as for image sake. To see if something like that could change him and make him happy instead. It hadn’t. but this was the first time he’s allowed himself to indulge so far and so intimately.

When he pulls off to catch his breath, Hannibal’s hand moves to his hair, holding tight enough to perhaps constitute clinging, but there isn’t the needy pathetic desperation behind it so much as wanting. He licks his lips before ducking his head to press his lips just against the tip, exerting enough pressure to feel but no more than that.

Hannibal half growls into his next groan, pushing his hips up before he realizes himself, and then he pulls Will up. He feels loose and permissive and unusually sensitive to touch. Normally it might make him feel too vulnerable to properly enjoy. Here, however, he finds he just craves more.

Hannibal shifts his grip to pull Will up against him and get their mouths together, still rolling his hips just a little to press himself against Will for the sensation, quiet and desperate but not yet frantic. He reaches down between them to encourage Will a little more directly with firm strokes.

Finally, he rolls them, pushes Will down against the mattress and reaching up to claim a small jar from somewhere hidden amongst the pile of pillows at the head of the bed, pressing Will down into the soft feather mattress with most of his body as he does. He finds that he wants this to an unexpected level, as he works the slick, thick substance over his fingers.

He doesn't draw back any further than he has to to begin teasing Will open, delighting in returning the torment he had been given, interested to see if the other could begin to keep his focus through this.

In response, Will just groans, shifting enough to be able to spread his legs for the deliciously welcome teasing, before arching his neck with a sigh. He knows he’ll be tired after this, exhausted, but his body doesn’t seem to comprehend the words it would take to voice his concerns. Instead he finds himself shifting his hips down, one hand curling to grip the heavy cover just by his head, the other by his side, flexing gently with every movement Hannibal makes.

It doesn’t take long for his breathing to pick up, to stutter from between his teeth accompanied by soft whimpers.

He absently runs his thumb over the place his ring usually sits

“It shouldn’t take a week to sort things out,” he murmurs, voice pitched lower and rougher from ill-use, or perhaps from the whimpers and moans that tore from his throat instead of words. Regardless, he’s unsure if it’s a promise or a question. He hisses when Hannibal pushes a little deeper but it’s not in pain; he’s so close to where Will wants him, and perhaps deliberately skirting it.

“God, will you even let me walk when I leave this country?”

"It won't take every moment of the week," Hannibal agrees, working his fingers in a gentle rhythm and enjoying every sound that pours free of Will, before he shifts his fingers just so at the question, forcing Will's voice high and wavering through the end of his question. 

"I hardly intend to permanently damage you," Hannibal answers, giving Will a few seconds of direct, rubbing pressure against his prostate, until the other is gasping and almost unaware of himself in blinding pleasure before he withdraws his fingers. Then he pushes and nudges to get Will onto his front, up onto his knees.

When he lines himself up and pushes, it's with urgency, but not without consideration. He hesitates when Will's voice pulls free and he can't quite tell if it's encouragement or a request to go a little slower. Hannibal digs his hands into the sheets on either side of Will and slows down, gripping hard into the blankets and biting down on Will's shoulder to steady himself, before he exhales a sound almost like a chuckle, apologetic. "Maybe you won't walk tomorrow."

Will moans, arching into the teeth against his shoulder but not quite pushing back yet. It’s tight and perfect but just that side of painful. He takes his time to even his breathing, to allow his smile to spread wider on his face, eyes at half-mast as Hannibal keeps easing in until they’re both still, adjusting.

He doesn’t need to walk tomorrow, he supposes, he doesn’t want to move much at all for a few days. He hums, licking his lips and ducking his head further before raising it and turning back to look at him.

“I’m sure I can deal with that.”

He tightens his muscles a little, eyes closing at the pressure, and bends his body more forward in invitation for Hannibal to move. It starts as a slow thing, exploratory and neither wanting to rush. Will adjusts enough until his voice hits that pitch again, that level of incoherence where all he can do is make sounds and hope he’s understood.

Hannibal keeps one hand in the sheets to anchor himself, fingers curled hard in the fabric, and the other curls around Will's chest, fanning over his neck and stroking his long fingers there to feel the sound shaking through his vocal cords, feel him breathing and occasionally gathering himself with a swallow and under all of it his pulse hammering.

Soothingly, he strokes over the rough skin, it feels unshaven for the day and he can trace the outline of adam's apple, the vulnerable cords of muscle and veins beneath, and he almost growls before he bites Will again, just to the side of his first mark on the man's shoulder. It's almost too much, even for Hannibal, and he rushes, holds hard on the bed and harder onto Will and works in rough thrusts that has them both making noise by the end of it, as Will arches himself and claws for anything he can hold onto. 

The desperate, needy sounds are what do it most for the Count, and he finally has the presence of mind to remember to get a hand on Will, so he drops his hand from the man's neck and reaches down, curls his fist around Will's cock and has barely touched him before the other is coming hard through his fingers and then it's certainly too much and Hannibal follows just after in a few moments of lost time with his teeth sinking hard enough to mark. It drives Will's voice up into a fluttering sound that would, under any other circumstances, have left Hannibal nearly desperate with lust - here, it just seems to drag things on even longer.

Will is dizzy by the time it stops, mouth still wide on quick pants of air and any sounds that escape him, eyes closed tight as he tries to come to terms with all of the sensations running through his system; sliding over his skin, into his body, hammer against him as surely as his heart is. And perhaps it’s simply reverberations from his ribcage, perhaps it’s nothing at all but skewed perception and unbelievable pleasure. He ducks his head, hair damp with sweat, and swallows until his throat doesn’t feel quite so dry.

Above him, he can feel Hannibal sharing a similar struggle to herd his perceptions together. Will’s legs are trembling, and although most of the Count’s weight is on his own arms, he hasn’t moved to pull out of Will yet, or to shift much away at all. Will hums, blinks rapidly to clear his vision and bites his lower lip before moving forward just enough to be indication that it may soon grow uncomfortable for them both.

When Hannibal obliges, Will turns over, back against the bed, another moan escaping him as his back realigns again in pleasing clicks and tugs that only Will can feel. He reaches up to tug the man down against him to kiss. His heart is still hammering, he can feel Hannibal’s match the rhythm, neither are as spent as they should be after such exertions, and Will laughs, a low sound, imaging how much longer either can hold out before they simply can’t anymore.

They ease together on the bed, Hannibal settling on his side and pulling Will with him as they kiss again. He's pleased, should be sated and sleepy, but he isn't - it seems their drink hasn't finished with them yet. Hannibal makes a soft sound, amused, and pulls one of Will's legs up over his hip, teasing his fingers against the bent back of Will's knee, and then in a long line up the back of his thigh to circle him again with no real intent than to discover if he will give protest yet. 

"You have age on your side," Hannibal begins, still breathless. "Do you want to see who cries mercy first?"

There's not a lot of challenge in the tone, but there is suggestion enough. For now, the sensation from the brandy is still coursing his veins, and it has been some time since he's had company of this variety - especially some so deeply pleasurable. He presses his fingers just a little more firmly, until Will groans at the faintly sore sensation and Hannibal is sure he has his attention.

"What next?" he purrs, "What do you reveal in the dark?"

Will’s lips spread in a smile and his only answer is to gently roll his hips back and down against Hannibal’s hand. He’s fairly sure he will cry mercy first, certain it won’t be long before he does, but for the moment he just ducks his head and sucks a wet, warm mark against the base of Hannibal’s throat, soft enough to fade quickly, but enough to remember.

“Everything, if asked nicely enough.” he replies, and presses his lips to Hannibal’s before the man gets it into his mind to start.

-

The morning brings heat. The sun’s rays are stopped by the heavy velvet covers and the coverings drawn around the bed, but the heat of it passes through well enough. Will groans, the sound lilting into a high little whimper as he tries to shift. If memory serves, this, at least, should be expected. Hannibal had promised the man he wouldn’t walk the next morning.

He finds himself still tangled with Hannibal, a mess of sweat-slick limbs that slide easily over each other, and pulls away just enough to rest on his back, arching up with a quiet hiss until he can find a position that is comfortable. At least there’s no hangover. He turns his head to regard the man beside him, stirring to life slowly as Will had been, and feels his lips tug up in a smirk. The debauched look certainly suits the Count.

Hannibal's hair is a wreck from too many passes of Will's fingers, and there are red marks interrupting his skin in the perfect descriptions of Will's mouth in several places along his neck. He moves slowly, muscles clearly gone faintly stiff from the exertion and immediate slumber, but his expression turns to a slow, immediate smile as he wakes, rolling and reaching again for Will as his eyes finally come open.

They should get up and bathe. They should drink water - Hannibal's mouth is dry and sticky, and even though he is sweating it feels like he is no cooler for it. He is sticky in other ways, too, dry in places, tacky in others - and while perhaps he should feel disgusted he can't bring himself to. He just pulls Will closer against himself in a slow motion, then stretches himself and begins to rub William's back slowly - curious if in 'the light of day', though the canopy blocks most of it, William will regret what he'd done.

He doesn't protest, he simply arches and stretches into the touch, before Hannibal is too sore to continue and he presses his mouth against the back of Will's neck, once, over an old mark. "I'll get us water... unless you feel more capable than I promised?"

Will just moans, allowing himself to practically melt into bed again at Hannibal’s delicious and welcome touches. He stretches one arm out in front of him in a semblance of a stretch and relaxes, turning carefully so he can see the Count properly again.

“I believe if you wanted to have any paperwork done today at all you will need to use me as a writing desk,” he murmurs, “I doubt I’ll be capable of walking for a few days.”

There’s a hint in the narrowing of his eyes of slight pain but no displeasure. It seems the morning has done nothing but bring to light the marks he’s left on the man, and Will turns his hand to run cool knuckles over the bites and bruises decorating Hannibal’s skin. No regrets surface and he hums quietly on an exhale before dropping his hand.

“Water will be very welcome.” He says, pulling his arms over his head, clasped, to stretch them until his shoulders click and his back stretches properly, a sound escaping him that effortlessly mirrors the sounds he couldn’t control the night before. Then Will relaxes and smiles. “As would a bath, perhaps.”

Hannibal's mouth answers in a hungry motion, working into a swallow at its own leisure - though whether it's at the sounds Will made or the notion of a tub full of hot water in which to soak is the guess of either. He does not seem to have enough apparent servants - in fact, no apparent servants at all - to make the latter happen, but he stands and stretches, after pulling back one side of the canopy. He leans down and pauses to touch Will gently, with his fingers passing over two marks his own mouth had made.

"Sleep a little longer, and I'll see what can be done about a bath," he assures. That there would be water to drink and breakfast was assured, but getting all that hot water up here would take a little doing. He leaves Will in the shade of the canopy, stretched luxuriously on the bed, and goes to make the arrangements.

Hannibal returns sometime later, and the smell of steam and warm food tease their way into Will's awareness, but when Hannibal settles onto the edge of the bed and passes him a glass of cold water to drink, it is iced heavily with melting snow. "I'm afraid the snows have come early this year," he apologizes, though he does not look very sorry.

Will sits up and takes the freezing glass in both hands, first looking at Hannibal then looking past him to the completely white windows. They’re too high up to be snowed in this far, but the drifts have obviously hit high enough to freeze on the windows and leave only enough for the sunlight to seep through. It takes Will a moment longer, as the cold water soothes his throat and simultaneously makes his body shiver, to process the fact that with weather like this they are unlikely to be able to send out letters, or, in fact, leave themselves.

He licks his lips and leans over to set the glass down, bringing his hands to run tickling, freezing lines over Hannibal’s arm and shoulder, down his back and splay at his tailbone, relishing in the jerk he was rewarded with.

“I suppose we can dig our way out.” he suggests, deadpan, before tilting his head a little, eyes narrowing. The idea of being completely locked off from anything and anyone, in the castle, after the events of the previous evening bring up an almost childish excitement Will can barely contain.

Hannibal peers back at him, and a long shiver runs through him at the freezing sensation above his tailbone. "If that would amuse you, I will find you a shovel," Hannibal answers, with equal sincerity. "Though it will only snow you back in again, I'm afraid. In the meantime, Mr. Graham, are you sure you're quite up to shovelling?"

Hannibal stands again, and moves around the bed, and when he draws back the canopy on the other side, a massive metal tub has been set and filled with hot water for their leisure, with a silver tea service beside it for their refreshment.

"We'll be prisoners until Spring," he suggests. "Unless there is a late thaw. At least we are well stocked," he assures Will - though he had been intending to move, the castle was still ready for the winter, as he hadn't been sure how long the process would take. "I hope that is not such a torturous thought. If it is, I do have a shovel."

Will laughs, pressing his cold fingers against his eyes and feeling himself wake up further before sighing and dropping his head back. Until Spring. In London seasons flowed into one another, interacted, melted and froze together. Here, he has no idea how long a winter lasts, how long until the snow shifts enough for them to even consider attempting to get out.

He finds the idea settling comfortably in his chest, and drops his head back down, smiling wider at the notion that for weeks, he will have no obligations, no one to answer to but himself and his whims, and no one for company but a man who seems to share them.

He licks his lips and rolls his shoulders before pushing himself to the edge of the bed to stand. It should be humiliating how much discomfort he suffers when he finally gets upright. But Hannibal’s expression of triumph is almost empowering, definitely something Will wants to make him express again. he steps closer and settles his hands on the edge of the tub, just resting before turning his head to regard Hannibal with a smirk.

“You’re right,” He admits. “I suppose I’m not quite up to shovelling just yet.”


End file.
